


peace of mind

by sketchedsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Admiration, Character Study, M/M, Miya Atsumu and His Admiration for Kita, Miya Atsumu-centric, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchedsmiles/pseuds/sketchedsmiles
Summary: Atsumu learns what it means to do things properly every day when he meets his new captain.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 13
Kudos: 86
Collections: Atsukita Week





	peace of mind

**Author's Note:**

> this has been written for day seven of [atsukita week](https://twitter.com/atsukitaweek). many thanks to the mods for organizing this event! i hope you enjoy my first piece revolving around these two.

The plaque outside the entrance to Inarizaki High School catches the sunlight right as Atsumu dashes past it. His sneakers smack against the ground as he tears through the front of the school, dirt clinging to the bottoms of his shoes, and behind him, he can hear Osamu hollering at his back, something along the lines of—“ _Slow the fuck down! I ain’t runnin’ now. I might spill my lunch.”_

It’s a shame, because Osamu is usually the only one willing to engage Atsumu in his petty competitive spats. Whether it’s a clash to see who can find the right carton of milk in the grocery store or a race to see who can make it to the top of the hill first, Atsumu always counts on Osamu to keep up with him. But today is the exception. With his lunch sitting in his backpack, nothing can convince Osamu that a sprint towards the gymnasium is worth it. 

It’s fine. It’s whatever. Atsumu doesn’t care. He wants to be early, and he doesn’t care if Osamu walks into their first practice at Inarizaki High School alongside him. He wants to be the first to show up. He wants to make a good impression—to show why he deserves to be on the starting line up from the get go over all of these other scrubs. He’s put in the hours. He knows he’s good. It’s all about making sure the rest of the team knows how good he is, too. 

When he arrives at the gymnasium set aside for the boys’ volleyball team, he locates the club room through one of the side hallways. The silence that follows him is almost suffocating, and for a brief second—a very brief second—he regrets not waiting for Osamu to catch up before barging through. His hand cradles the knob to the door, and he half-expects it to be locked.

But no. When he twists, the door gives way, and Atsumu peers through the crack to see who else is inside. He’s hoping it’s Kurosu. He’s not sure he’s ready to confront the captain on his own yet. 

The eerie quiet that reflects back to him makes him wonder if anyone is inside at all. Atsumu’s palm falls flat against the door, pushing it wider, and he wanders inside, glancing from side to side.

“You’re not technically supposed to be here yet,” a voice cuts in. It slices through the stillness, level and calm, and despite the relaxed manner in which the remark is said, it makes Atsumu stiffen like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He supposes he has. He should have waited outside the gymnasium for one of the older students to appear instead of letting himself in. 

Atsumu finds the source of the voice in another boy the next row over. He stands in front of the lockers, drawing the zipper of his sweatshirt up to his neck, and he doesn’t even spare a look in Atsumu’s direction. He’s so focused on the task at hand that it’s like Atsumu has become a fly on the wall. He has to be one of the older students, Atsumu reasons. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gotten inside the room. 

But Atsumu can’t recall his face from Inarizaki’s starting lineup. He might be a younger student replacing one of his seniors now. It would be worth it to leave a good impression. 

“Hi!” Atsumu lifts a hand in an awkward wave. “I’m Atsumu. Miya Atsumu. First year. I’m startin’ at the club today.”

“I figured,” he says. He inclines his head in Atsumu’s direction, and Atsumu gets a better look at his profile now. His black-and-white hair marks him out of a crowd, but beyond that, there appears to be a certain serenity to his demeanor. His features never twitch into a smile or a frown, remaining flat until the very end, but he doesn’t seem offended by Atsumu’s presence. Atsumu questions whether this is a permanent look. “Nice to meetcha, Miya-kun.”

“Oh, no.” Atsumu wants to make sure he starts off on the right foot. He doesn’t want anyone calling him ‘Miya.’ It’ll erase any confusion later on if everyone refers to him as Atsumu from the beginning. “You can call me Atsumu. I’d prefer it, actually. You see, I have a twin, and it would be pretty confusin’ if everyone called us Miya all the time.”

“That makes sense.”

Atsumu gulps. There’s no heat or harshness behind his responses, but Atsumu still gets the feeling like he’s talking to someone much wiser than him. He can’t quite explain it. “Uh, didja ever say what yer name is?”

“It’s Kita.” Kita pushes his locker shut. “Kita Shinsuke. Second year.”

“Kita-san. It’s nice to meetcha.”

“Likewise.” Kita’s gaze sweeps around the rest of the club room, as if there is anyone else with them. “Kurosu-sensei should be here soon. You’re a bit early. I don’t know how you’ll be assigned a locker.”

“Oh. That’s fine.” Atsumu undoes the straps of his backpack from around his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. “I don’t mind waitin’. I wanted to be here early.”

“You’re early, alright,” Kita says. His eyes brush past Atsumu’s backpack, laid in a heap by his feet, before coming to rest on Atsumu’s face. His stare, Atsumu is coming to realize, is unnerving. “If you wanna stick around here, you can take a seat.” He gestures at the bench that sits between the rows of lockers. “I’m sure the rest of the team will start showin’ up soon.”

“Right.” Atsumu plops himself down on the edge of the bench, his hands braced on his knees. He keeps his body turned towards Kita, partly because he doesn’t know where else to look and partly because he doesn’t want Kita to think of him as impolite. “What position do you play, Kita-san?”

“Wing spiker.” Kita fumbles with the lock on his locker. 

Atsumu nods. That means Osamu will have to compete with Kita for a starting position. He already knows that Osamu has to compete with Aran as well. Osamu has his work cut out for him. 

“What’s yer position, Atsumu?” Kita prompts him.

“Oh.” Atsumu sits up straight. “I’m a setter. I wanna make the startin’ line up soon.”

To Atsumu’s surprise, Kita isn’t put off by Atsumu’s show of confidence. Whether he interprets it as arrogance, Atsumu can’t tell. All he knows is that Kita digests this information with a polite nod before murmuring, “Then you’ll hafta work very hard.”

Atsumu knows that. He’s always known that because that’s how it’s always been for him. From the moment he started volleyball, he’s always had a constant rival in Osamu. He’s accustomed to competing for his position. He’s not going to slack off now because Inarizaki has a team of some of the best high school players in the nation. If anything, that only makes him want to try harder. 

“I will,” Atsumu affirms. “I’m gonna try real hard.”

“Then I look forward to seein’ what you’ll do.”

It’s a strange thing to say. It sounds like something his grandmother might tell him, but coming from Kita, the praise sits differently in his stomach. It makes him want to smile, like Kita is purposely waiting to be impressed by Atsumu. 

Atsumu won’t fail him. 

“Oi, Kita,” a voice calls out. It’s familiar, even if it’s tinged with slight irritation this time around. “I’m assumin’ you have a Miya in there with ya?”

Kita’s gaze slides over to Atsumu. “Yes,” he calls back.

Aran’s head pops into the club room, his hand gripped around the collar of Osamu’s sweatshirt as he drags him inside. “I thought so,” Aran says, depositing Osamu on the bench right beside Atsumu. “It’s day one, and the two of you are already causin’ me problems.”

Atsumu looks over at Osamu. “What didja do?”

Osamu shrugs.

“You two are meant to wait outside,” Aran says, when it’s clear that neither of them understand what they’re being scolded for. “First years wait to be allowed in. They can’t just barge in when they feel like it!”

“Technically, Aran-kun,” Osamu points out, “you did let me inside.”

At that, Aran’s face falls. His right eye twitches, and Atsumu imagines it’ll do that a lot over the next two years. “Fine!” He jabs a finger at Atsumu. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t let Atsumu inside!”

“I did,” someone interjects.

Aran falters, looking back over his shoulder. Kita has perched himself on the bench along with the twins in order to tie his shoelaces, and he doesn’t bother lifting his head as he continues, “I let Atsumu inside. It’s fine, Aran.”

“Oh.” It’s like all the fight leaves Aran in an instant. He deflates like a balloon, all the tension evaporating with Kita’s words—even if they aren’t true. Kita definitely did _not_ let Atsumu inside. Atsumu let himself inside. “Alright. _Fine._ The two of you better not start any more trouble. It’s yer first day. No pickin’ fights with the other first years—especially _you,_ Atsumu.”

Osamu’s face remains impassive.

Atsumu scoffs. “I never pick fights.”

Osamu snickers. “Sure, Tsumu.”

“I don’t!”

“I don’t care!” Aran lifts a hand in between them to stop the ensuing argument before it really begins. “I don’t care. Be on yer best behavior today. I don’t want any complaints.”

“Is that cuz you know everyone’s gonna direct them at you cuz you know us already?”

“Shut up, Atsumu.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.” Atsumu beams up at Aran, who does not look convinced in the slightest. “Honest, Aran-kun.”

“Best behavior, my ass—”

“Atsumu,” Kita interrupts again. It doesn’t matter that he’s not involved in the conversation. Whenever he speaks, Aran falls silent immediately, and even Osamu remains quiet while waiting for Kita to add his comment. There’s a kind of power in that. Atsumu finds himself waiting in anticipation for the rest of Kita’s sentence, even if he doesn’t have to wait that long. It feels like ages regardless. “Don’t give anyone a hard time.”

The severity of the command hangs over Atsumu’s head. It’s not the same warning Aran gave him, even if the words are modified only slightly. The weight that comes with it is different. With Aran, there’s a sense of familiarity in that Atsumu can get away with teasing Aran. With Kita, there’s an expectation for Atsumu to do well—and that includes not drawing unnecessary attention to himself. 

Atsumu stiffens, ignoring the two wide-eyed stares from Aran and Osamu respectively, and he mumbles, “Yes, Kita-san.”

* * *

Atsumu rethinks his theory of Kita as some kind of all-powerful being. As it turns out, Kita is not even part of the starting line up. He waits with the rest of the benchwarmers, observing the team from afar, and his careful eyes catch onto any and all missteps that their teammates take. That calculation is not limited to their opponents. Kita watches them all. 

Yet, with all his game sense, Kita doesn’t seem to have the kind of ambition Atsumu harbors close. While Atsumu goes all out during practices, speaking one-on-one with each hitter and aiming to give his teammates the easiest spikes to hit, Kita is content to merely do things right. He never goes above and beyond. He’s thorough. That’s about it. 

But Atsumu supposes that it doesn’t matter how brazen he is with his desire to earn a spot in the starting line up. He winds up in the same place as Kita, waiting with the rest of the team off to the side, while the seven players selected for the practice match wait for the referee to get into place in order to start. 

“It’s not fair,” Atsumu grumbles under his breath for the seventh time since he heard the line up. There’s a disconnect between what he wants and what is real. He wants to be out on the court, making fools out of their opponents. Instead, the reality is that he’s on the bench, like all of the other first years, waiting for the moment he can prove himself. 

He _knows_ he’s better than the third year setter on the court right now. He’s certain of it. He’s been syncing up better with the team’s spikers, reaching massive bursts of improvement, and even Osamu gave him a begrudging nod of approval after one of his precise sets. Kurosu has been watching him for the past couple of weeks, and Atsumu knows his performance has been impressive overall. So _why_ is he not out there with the rest of them? 

The one silver lining is that—this time—Osamu hasn’t beat him. He’s standing right beside him, shifting his weight from leg to leg. He blows a puff of air, sending his newly dyed gray hair away from his eyes. Beside Osamu, Suna tucks his hands into his shorts. His usual impassive expression gives way to something akin to hunger—a feeling Atsumu is all too familiar with. 

The rest of the third years that aren’t part of the starting line up pay Atsumu no mind. They’ve started doing this, ignoring Atsumu’s occasional pompous comments and pretending like he hasn’t spoken. It’s not something he’s unused to, and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at it. From the very first day, he’s made his intentions clear. The setter position is _his._

“Shut up, Tsumu,” Osamu says.

The whistle pierces through the thick air, and like that, the first serve from the opposing team is put into play. Atsumu can’t even remember who they’re playing against. They’re a local school, but they must be mid-table in the prefecture. He’s sure Kurosu has arranged for this match to get a sense for their starting line up rather than to challenge his players. Their dark green uniforms burn against Atsumu’s vision, especially as he watches them receive one of Aran’s powerful spikes.

The first thing that runs through Atsumu’s mind is this: _Aran-kun could’ve gotten the point there if you had made the set easier for him to hit._

It’s vicious jealousy that bubbles up inside him, intensifying until it numbs all of his senses, making all of his thoughts irrational in a matter of minutes. He’s caught in his own circle of suffocation as he watches someone else play a position he knows he can manage so much _better._ He wants to be out there. He _deserves_ to be out there.

One of his hands comes up to smoothen the front of his shirt. The cotton feels soothing against his palm as he runs his fingers along the outline of his number. He wants to be out there representing Inarizaki. He doesn’t want to be on the bench.

“You’ll be out there soon, Atsumu.”

Atsumu drops his arm and whips his head to the side. Kita’s focus is pointed ahead, but his attention is on Atsumu. Somehow, without even looking over, he’s aware of Atsumu’s inner turmoil. Atsumu doesn’t have to verbalize it. 

“Yeah?” There’s a note of bitterness to the word. “When will that be, huh?”

Osamu taps his wrist, a gentle warning. _Don’t be disrespectful towards Kita-san._

“Soon,” Kita repeats. “You said it yourself. You wanna make the startin’ line up.” He raises his voice—only slightly. “All of you will be on the startin’ line up soon.”

“Soon isn’t enough.” His fingers curl into fists at his sides. “I’m tired of soon. I wanna be out there now.”

His comment doesn’t go unnoticed by the other upperclassmen. He can feel their stares burning into the side of his skull, but he doesn’t care. He’s never cared, so why should he start now? 

“Patience is a virtue, Atsumu,” Kita says. 

For some reason, Kita’s level responses only irritate him more. He wishes that someone would express the same frustration as him. But no—he’s the only one that’s _angry_ at the situation. Osamu doesn’t mind waiting for a spot. He’s said so to Atsumu’s face. Suna doesn’t look willing to knock anyone off the roster for his place. Ginjima just looks happy to be here. No one matches him in hunger—in ambition. 

Who is Kita to talk? He’s a second year, like Aran, and he’s here on the bench chatting to his juniors as if he knows any better.

“You don’t get it,” Atsumu says. “I’m not here to sit on the bench. I’m not here to be _patient._ I’m not like _you._ I know I’m _good._ ”

“Atsumu!” The sharp reprimand comes from Osamu, but it’s backed up by wide-eyed stares from Suna and Ginjima, who look as though they’re expecting Kita to strangle Atsumu with his bare hands. 

For the first time since the match began, Kita tears his gaze away from the court. His brown eyes find Atsumu’s, and Atsumu gets the sense that—for once—he really should learn when to keep his big mouth shut. There’s no animosity behind them, nor is there any anger, but Atsumu feels like he’s staring down the captain rather than a no-name benchwarmer.

“You’re right,” Kita says, and this small acknowledgement makes Atsumu tilt his head. “You are good. And I’m not like you at all.” He pauses. “I’m here to do things well, but you’re here to take things a few steps further than that, aren’tcha?”

Atsumu flounders. What is he meant to say to _that_? “Uh, I mean—”

“You’re never gonna be satisfied on the bench, Atsumu. Wherever you are. Wherever you go. It’s not in yer nature.”

“Yes, I suppose—”

Kita returns his attention back to the court, just as another second year—a tall stoic middle blocker with thin eyebrows—blocks a hard spike. “I feel very lucky to be here at all,” Kita says, and there’s a sense of wonder in his tone. Atsumu can’t fathom it. “I’ve never gotten to play before. At all. Not in an actual match.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows flick upward. “Really?” He’s seen Kita during practices. He might not be anything special, but he performs every aspect of volleyball in a way that meets each requirement. He’s well-balanced. 

“I’ve never had a uniform before either.” Kita pulls at the shoulders of his jersey, like it’s a treasure to be handled with care. Atsumu thinks about all the times he left his stinky jersey in his backpack because he forgot to give it to his mother to wash—or all the times he threw it in the back of his dresser drawer until the next match. He has always thought of having a uniform as a necessity, not a privilege. “Not until high school. It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu echoes. “It’s nice.” His eyes flit over to the other second years, all watching and listening along with him, the wonder in his eyes reflected in theirs. 

“Mmhmm,” Kita hums. “So I don’t mind sittin’ out. I don’t mind not bein’ a part of the line up. I feel fortunate that I’ve made it here to begin with. I’ll take my minutes where I can—if I can. All I can do is hope that all the work I’ve put in up until now amounts to somethin’ in the end.”

Atsumu blinks. He doesn’t know how to respond. He can’t tell if Kita is telling him this looking for reassurance. Regardless, his words strike a chord in Atsumu’s heart. He’s always equated a lack of ambition with weakness. He’s thinking that might not be the case. Maybe ambition comes in other forms. 

“But you’re not like me,” Kita says. “You want to be on the court right away, and you will be.”

“Right.” It’s the confirmation he wants to hear, but after what Kita’s told him, it doesn’t flood him with the self-confidence he wanted. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“Sorry?”

“We’re not the same kind of player,” Kita elaborates. “You wanna go pro someday, and I don’t. It’s an entirely different dynamic.” Kita shrugs. “Well, I guess it’s not entirely different. We both love volleyball, but in different ways. I love volleyball enough to make it part of my life. You love it enough to make it yer life.”

Dumbfounded, all Atsumu can do is nod. It sounds—right.

Kita looks sideways again. “You don’t all hafta stare. I’m just statin’ facts.”

In an instant, Osamu, Suna, and Ginjima all find somewhere else to look, averting their gazes. Atsumu is the only one to keep his eyes on Kita. 

“Kita-san,” Atsumu says, “I really respect you.”

Kita’s eyebrows lift. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

When Kita looks back at the court, Atsumu is sure he spots a pleased smile on Kita’s lips. 

* * *

Kita is right. This sounds more like a universal truth rather than a simple admission. Atsumu finds that Kita is often right. Actually, he can’t recall a time when Kita has ever been wrong.

Kita is right—because when the qualifiers for the Interhigh Tournament come around, it isn’t the third year setter that is assigned to the line up. It’s Atsumu. 

Even more than that, Osamu is part of the starting line up, too. Atsumu would never admit it out loud, but he’s glad that he doesn’t have to start alone. He doesn’t know how to exist on a court without Osamu. He thinks it would be like losing a limb: difficult to adjust to a constant you’ve always known. 

Osamu replaces another third year on the team, a shorter spiker that isn’t as flexible when it comes to his game all-around, and when it’s time for the first match, the Miyas make their high school debut. The chant from their cheer squad accompanies them as they prepare to walk out onto the court, a firm and present reminder of who they’re representing and how much it means. The band that he’s longed to hear in person are much more imposing when he’s standing in front of them, and the music strikes his own heart. Ginjima gives the twins a quick thumbs-up as they pass, earnest as ever. Suna nods, swaying on his feet, his expression bored as usual. But he appears to be happy for them.

Atsumu’s hand itches to pat down the front of his shirt, smoothing away all of the imaginary wrinkles. He can’t say that he dislikes the cameras pointed at him, but they do make the whole atmosphere more intense. This is where his lack of experience comes into play. This is why older players are favored. Their time observing and enduring the limelight serves them well when the stakes are high. 

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu twists around as a hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades. Kita is on the bench today, like all of the other times. Atsumu has beaten him to the starting line up. Yet, Kita doesn’t seem to mind. Not at all. His expression is as level as always, his mouth flat and his eyes focused. He looks like he wants to say something. 

“Yes, Kita-san?” Atsumu prompts.

Kita’s hand falls. Atsumu misses its slight pressure already. “I look forward to seein’ what you’ll do,” Kita says, and it’s exactly what he said to Atsumu the first time they met when Atsumu had marched up to him with all of the arrogance of a bright-eyed first year and declared that he would make the starting line up even if it killed him. He says it with all the confidence in the world in knowing that Atsumu won’t let him down.

And Atsumu doesn’t intend to. He won’t. Atsumu beams. “Of course, Kita-san!”

* * *

His presence as a permanent starter doesn’t mean Kita watches him any less. 

In fact, it’s like he takes Atsumu’s promise to heart. He’s looking forward to seeing what Atsumu will do. In order for that to happen, Kita monitors Atsumu’s progress with a keen eye when the third years falter. He scolds Atsumu for slacking on his coursework; he urges Atsumu to slow down when he starts on another one of his competitive sprints with Osamu; he ensures that Atsumu eats full, well-balanced meals. It’s unnerving having someone around that watches over him so closely. Atsumu can never get away with anything. The second he slips up, Kita is there to point it out. 

Atsumu isn’t the only one Kita watches. He encourages Ginjima not to get caught up in the fervor of the rally; he reminds Osamu to keep up with his setting; he watches over Suna as Suna performs his core exercise to be able to do that weird upper body spike that he does. He’s meticulous in how he looks after them, including the rest of the second years. It makes Kita feel like more than a captain than their current captain, but the one time he said this to Osamu, he was met with a pillow to the face and a warning to “shut the fuck up.”

He got the message. 

Still, he says this to Kita one day, while he sits on the stairs outside of Inarizaki’s gymnasium. The rest of the team is still out on their sprint. He and Osamu had gone off on one of their competitive spats again, resulting in their quick return back to the high school. 

(Osamu claims he won. Atsumu claims that it was too close to call.) 

Kita returns back with Suna in tow. Suna’s face is red and flushed, droplets of sweat shining on his forehead, and he pulls his shirt up to wipe it off as he stumbles into the gym. 

“Osamu,” Suna calls out. “Get me a water.”

“Get it yourself,” Osamu says. But despite his words, Atsumu can hear Osamu shuffle in search of another water bottle for Suna. 

Atsumu offers up a pleasant smile as Kita ambles over, but he’s surprised when Kita takes it as an invitation to sit down beside him. Kita lifts a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, and even though he’s not rasping for breath like Suna, the sunlight catches on the sweat that collects on his neck. 

“The weather is good today,” Kita comments. “Not too warm and not too cold.”

Atsumu nods in agreement. He uncaps his water bottle and lifts it to his mouth for another sip. He’s done this several times since he’s returned. It’s become a habit ever since the time Aran yelled at him for making himself sick after swallowing an icy bottle of water in one go. He works through it slowly rather than draining it like he wants to. “Good day for a run,” Atsumu says, before wincing internally. This is terrible small talk.

Somehow, Kita seems to engage with it further. “I agree.” He looks back inside the gym. From where he sits, he can probably spot Osamu and Suna inside, doing whatever they’re doing. “I could tell Suna wanted to find a shortcut.”

“That’s Suna for you. Lazy bastard.”

“Yeah.” Kita shrugs. “He never complains, though. He’ll do what is asked of him.”

Atsumu thinks this is quite a generous description of Suna. Every time he’s partnered with him, he has to resist the urge to bark at Suna for slacking off. Yet—Suna never does it in a real game. Kita has a point about that. He meets each of Atsumu’s sets with equal fervor, and he never complains when Atsumu tries something new. It’s nice knowing that Atsumu can get away with things like that: his old teammates would hate it when he demanded more of them. Suna doesn’t care much either way. 

Atsumu likes Ginjima for this reason, too. Ginjima never whines over the kind of set Atsumu sends him. He’s happy to hit whatever comes his way. His passion matches Atsumu’s, and for that, Atsumu is grateful. He likes having a few teammates that won’t criticize him for being spontaneous. 

“I guess so,” Atsumu says. 

“Anyone else back yet?”

“Nope.” Atsumu looks back out into the distance, his ears pricking for the sound of sneakers hitting the pavement, but there’s nothing to be heard. “Aran-kun should be back soon. Omimi-san, too. And Gin.”

Kita nods. “Yeah, they’ll be back soon.”

The two of them fall into silence, a bird chirping in the distance overhead, the sun warming their exposed skin. Atsumu takes sporadic sips from his water, squinting to see if he can spot anyone in the distance. The shrubbery floods his vision, the splash of green comforting on a day like today, and although he would normally itch to get up and move around, he stays still—because Kita seems content to merely sit here. 

Kita lifts his face toward the sun, his eyelids fluttering shut, and Atsumu is content to merely watch him. Every few seconds, a breeze rushes through the air, rustling the ends of Kita’s dipped hair, but Kita never seems to mind. 

The serenity is shattered when three pairs of footsteps pound towards them. Atsumu straightens as Aran, Omimi, and Gin come into view. Omimi nods briefly before heading inside in search of a spare water bottle. Gin comes to a slow stop, bracing his hands on his hips as his shoulders heave, his breaths raspy. Beside him, Aran looks at ease, a few droplets of sweat dripping down his temples, but otherwise unfazed. 

“Take it easy, Gin,” Kita warns. “There’s water inside. No need to push yourself.”

Ginjima nods, like he can’t speak even if he wanted to. Every step he takes towards the inside of the gymnasium is slow and heavy, and Atsumu almost winces as he watches him go. Ginjima really should have gone with Kita and Suna. Aran and Omimi are quick; their long legs make them difficult to keep up with. Atsumu understands Ginjima not wanting to keep up with him and Osamu. After all, no one does. But tagging along with Kita and Suna would have ensured an easier journey: neither Kita nor Suna run very quickly, though they are thorough. 

“He looks like he might pass out,” Atsumu says. He brings his own water bottle back up to his lips, savoring the cool rush that goes to his head. “He’s breathin’ real heavy.”

“I know,” Aran says. He scratches at his chin. “He insisted that he wanted to keep up, though. He should work on his stamina a little more.”

“He’ll be fine,” Atsumu says. In this, he has no doubt. “Gin’s a hard worker.”

“That he is,” Kita murmurs. He peels one eye open to peer up at Aran. “There’s water inside. You really oughta grab one. You might not be gaspin’ for breath like Gin, but you should rehydrate.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aran stomps up the steps, kicking his sneakers against the outside wall before entering the gymnasium. “Will do. Any of the third years back yet?”

“Nope. I think they took the longer route.”

Aran scowls, but says nothing else. He vanishes inside, leaving Atsumu and Kita alone again.

“You’re good at that.” Atsumu sets his water bottle back down by his feet. 

“I’m good at what?”

“I dunno.” He doesn’t know how to explain it in a way that makes sense. He doesn’t know how to explain how carefully Kita watches them without making it obvious that he’s been watching Kita, too. All he knows is this: there is a kind of comfort that comes with knowing Kita has their backs. It’s not limited to the underclassmen. Kita watches over them all. “You’re very...observant.”

Kita braces his forearms against his knees. “I’d like to think so, yes.”

Atsumu doubts Kita fully understands what he’s getting at. “But it’s not just that.”

“No?”

“No.” Atsumu tries again. “You always know what to say. You’re always watchin’ out for each person and what they need. You know not everyone needs the same thing at the same time. You’re not lookin’ at us all like a group.”

“But we are a group?”

“I know,” Atsumu insists. He’s never been good with words. He doesn’t know how to articulate it best. “But you look after us all like individuals, ya know.”

Kita looks sideways at him, his cheek pressed against one of his knee caps. The image sends a flutter through Atsumu’s stomach. “Of course I do, Atsumu.”

Atsumu isn’t sure what possesses him to say it. But with Kita looking at him like that, his mind blanks, and his tongue moves of its own accord. He blurts out, “You’d make a great captain.”

Kita sits up straight, that relaxed look to his eyes gone, and he stretches his legs out. “What?” he demands.

“Uh—”

Kita turns away, and Atsumu wishes he could take it back. It was ridiculous to think at all—even if he knows it to be true. Kita isn’t his captain, no matter how much it feels like he is at times. It’s disrespectful to his current captain. 

“Sorry, Kita-san,” Atsumu says after a few seconds pass. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“I’m not upset.” Kita’s gaze is fixed ahead, never straying, and it looks like his eyes burn against the brightness of the sun.

“Are you sure? You look...like you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset, Atsumu.” Kita hugs his knees against his chest again, his chin dipping down to rest against them, and it takes a second for Atsumu to register the flush to his cheeks. It looks like a trick of the light. A figment of his imagination. Atsumu isn’t sure if he’s seeing things right. He rarely ever sees Kita smile, much less blush. “It was just unexpected.”

“But it’s not untrue,” Atsumu says, his voice small.

“Mmm?”

“You would,” Atsumu says. “Make a great captain, I mean.”

Kita exhales through his nostrils. Another breeze ruffles his hair again, pulling it away from his forehead. “That’s nice of you to say, Atsumu.”

“You don’t think it’s true?”

A pause. “I don’t think it’ll happen.”

“Why not?” Atsumu demands. He knows Kita doesn’t expect much from volleyball. He goes out to do his job as well as he can, and that’s enough for him. But isn’t it alright to hope? “Anyone can be captain. It doesn’t matter whether they’re out on the court or not. Hell, I could be captain.”

“Not for another few years.”

Atsumu scowls. For a second there, he imagined himself with a different jersey, a different number printed across the front. He wonders what it would be like to wear the number one. Of course, Kita’s words draw him away from the clouds and back down to reality. It’s a decent wake-up call. He’s got a few years before he’s even close to being considered for that position, and even then, there might be someone more grounded for the spot. He wouldn’t say he’s the most rational of people.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says grudgingly. “Alright.”

His ears pick up on the sounds of footsteps in the distance. The third years must be returning. He gets to his feet and dusts off his shorts. Before turning around, he reaches down for his water bottle and starts up the steps.

“Atsumu,” Kita says when Atsumu is halfway inside, caught on the threshold between the outdoors and the gymnasium.

Atsumu whips around. Kita hasn’t moved yet. He’s still in the same position as before, his legs curled up to his chest. His stare is focused ahead on some unknown point in the distance.

“Yes?”Atsumu asks.

“You’d make a great captain,” Kita murmurs. 

Atsumu can’t tell if Kita is saying this to make him feel better or if it’s a genuine observation. Either way, warmth floods his senses, and his mouth curves into a smile before he can process it. It’s a simple compliment, but to someone like Atsumu—who lives and breathes and _loves_ the sport—it’s the only kind of compliment he needs. 

“Thanks, Kita-san,” Atsumu says before continuing on inside. 

* * *

Kita becomes captain when the current third years graduate and the second years fill their places. 

When Kurosu hands Kita his jersey, the number one printed across the front and back, his expression doesn’t change. It remains still and level until he returns to his position on the floor, and as he curls his legs under him, he holds the jersey a little closer to his chest. Atsumu thinks that’s it. Kita never believed he could become the captain, but he has. This is what it means to be thorough. This is what it means to do things properly and witness the results of one’s labor. He thinks Kita should be proud of himself. 

After all, he’s seen Kita work tirelessly over the past year that they’ve known each other, and he knows that there is no one more deserving of the position than him. There is no one more suited for the role of watching their backs. Kita does that every day, and he does it well. Atsumu dreads the day when Kita won’t be around to keep an eye on him—when he won’t be around to keep an eye on all of them. 

But as Kita holds that jersey even tighter, tears spill from his eyes in heavy droplets, trailing down his cheeks and falling into his lap. His nose scrunches, his lip wobbling from the effort of holding himself back, and everyone can hear the sniffles no matter how hard Kita tries to contain them. 

Atsumu winces on instinct, and next to him, he sees Osamu do the same. In the background, he registers Suna’s comment of seeing Kita as a robot, but it is a fleeting thought. 

As he watches Kita, Kurosu’s voice continuing to drone on as he calls out the rest of their numbers for the remaining team members to collect their own jerseys, all he can think is that all of Kita’s work has amounted to something in the end. It’s what he’s hoped for all along. 

Doing things right seems a lot harder than doing things passionately. 

Atsumu doesn’t think he could manage it. 

As Kita continues to tear up, his sniffles breaking through the silence bubbled around them, Atsumu decides that silent sobs are as heart-breaking as loud shrieks of pain.

* * *

It doesn’t matter that the crowds are screaming. It doesn’t matter that the lights are beaming or that their cheer squad is offering words of encouragement or that the journalists near the sides of the courts are handing out consolation. It all becomes white noise, fading into the background, mindless against his eardrums. 

Atsumu grits his teeth as he bows to the crowd, thanking them for coming. He resists the urge to invite them to boo at them, knowing it’s the last thing the rest of the team needs. It doesn’t matter if he thinks he deserves it. The rest of the team played well, but in the end, Itachiyama Institute walks away with the victory at the Interhigh in Atsumu’s second year.

His feet guide him without thought through the tunnels to where the teams are permitted to change. All around him, the figures of his teammates close in, their heads bowed, most struggling to stifle their tears as they walk forward. Osamu keeps pace beside him, and this is some form of comfort to him. As his eyes burn with tears, so do Osamu’s. 

Atsumu’s movements are robotic as he goes about his usual post-match routine. He replaces his uniform for warm sweats; he sips from his water bottle, replenishing his thirst; he mops up the sweat collecting on his face with a towel. Around him, everyone partakes, and the silence is deafening. No one dares to speak. No one is willing to confront the battle they faced—and lost. 

Because that’s not the kind of team they are. They don’t need memories. Memories only serve to drag them down—to burden them with expectations and fears. They’ll go onto the next tournament, and this loss will become a distant thing. Loss means nothing when victory is around to replace it.

Still, he’s sure that the despair etched across the faces of all his teammates’ is reflected in his. 

Atsumu wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and he cuts one quick glance to Osamu. Osamu’s eyes are red, but he looks a little better than Atsumu. It’s not his fault, anyway. The team relies on their setter. 

It’s not his fault Atsumu faltered. 

Kurosu is the one to break the layer of silence. His authoritative voice climbs over the rest, and Atsumu casts a look over at him where he’s stood at the exit to the changing room. “C’mon, everyone. We’ll talk more back at the hotel.”

It’s as much solace as he can give them at the moment. Wordlessly, everyone retrieves their belongings and starts to file out of the room. Atsumu is ready to follow right behind Osamu when he feels a tug at his elbow, and he looks behind him to find Kita waiting with an expectant look.

“One sec, Atsumu,” Kita murmurs. “They’ll wait.”

“Alright.” Atsumu watches the rest of their teammates flood out, and Osamu looks back at him one last time before darting after Suna. Atsumu turns his attention to Kita. “What’s up, Kita-san?”

Kita doesn’t respond right away. He squints, as if trying to determine something Atsumu isn’t saying out loud, and it’s unnerving to say the least. Kita can smell any lie from a distance, no matter how small, and it’s impossible to get away with anything in his presence. But Atsumu hasn’t done anything wrong, per say. He doesn’t deserve the look Kita is giving him.

“What?” Atsumu demands, a little more harshly than he would usually speak to his upperclassmen. He clears his throat and tries again. “What?”

Kita blinks. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“Huh?” Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow. “I wasn’t—Kita-san—”

“You might not think that you were,” Kita says, “but a small part of ya thinks the loss today is on yer head. It’s not.” 

Kita stops to pick up his belongings. Without further prompting, he begins walking toward the door. Atsumu follows behind, his mind numb. 

“I toldja I was lookin’ forward to seein’ what you’ll do, Atsumu.” Kita pushes the door open and holds it for Atsumu to slip out, too. “You’re not finished yet, are you?”

“No,” Atsumu mumbles. “Not yet.”

Kita’s lip twitches, the faintest movement. “Good.”

* * *

Atsumu has to remind himself that he’s not finished after Inarizaki experiences their second loss in a national tournament during his second year. This time, defeat is brought upon them by Karasuno and their clever tricks, and Inarizaki is one step behind them. Karasuno thinks of everything: how to neutralize Aran, how to use Suna’s upper body spike to their advantage, how to block the freak quick. No matter how much distance Inarizaki tries to put between them, Karasuno catches up. Karasuno covers that distance.

Atsumu supposes this is partly his fault for underestimating them so much. He had been convinced it would be an easy win. He had thought it would be _boring_. It was anything but. Even now, as he walks down the steps to where the team will be instructed to change—another spare room like the last time—his heart thrums with exhilaration, even as it hangs with defeat.

It hurts more knowing that this is his last match with the upperclassmen. This is his last match playing alongside Aran, Omimi, and Akagi. This is his last match with Kita as his captain. As Kita tells them that he’s looking forward to bragging about them to his grandchildren, Atsumu reminds himself that he isn’t finished. This is not the end for him.

“Kita-san,” Atsumu says, bumping into Kita’s shoulder as they walk. “You’ll watch all my matches, won’t you? And you’ll come next year when we reach Nationals, right? You’ll see us get our revenge against Karasuno?”

“Of course,” Kita murmurs. “How else am I gonna brag?”

Atsumu beams. “I’ll tell everyone about you, too.” He nudges Kita with an elbow, and maybe it’s because it’s the end for them, he’s much more bold in his gestures. Normally, he would hesitate. Every sentence that would leave his mouth would be considered with care. Every touch would be analyzed in advance. But as time cuts short, Atsumu thinks less about what he’s doing. “I’ll tell everyone how great my captain was back in high school.”

“Mmm,” Kita hums. “That would be nice. You don’t hafta.”

“I’ll do it! Cuz I want to.”

Kita nods. “That sounds like a good reason.”

“You’ll come watch next year.” Atsumu says this like a declaration. Like a promise. He nudges Kita again. “You will, right? Promise.”

“Atsumu,” Kita says, looking sideways at him. “I promise.”

* * *

Atsumu is frozen in shock when it is decided that he is to become the captain in his third year.

For so long, he has thought of the captain’s position as one that belonged solely to Kita. Kita has been his guide for what a captain should be like. Kita has been his example of what the best kind of captain is. Head held high, shoulders straight, the right words on the tip of the tongue. Atsumu doesn’t know where he should even begin living up to his predecessor.

So he starts slow. 

Most of his fellow teammates have appreciative smiles as Kurosu calls him up to receive the captain’s jersey. It’s the exact same walk Kita made a year ago, and Atsumu’s legs are heavier as he retraces his steps. Ginjima offers up a double thumbs-up. Osamu’s expression is blank, but the keen focus in his gaze is enough to soothe Atsumu’s nerves as he takes the jersey from Kurosu.

It’s a jersey. He’s held them numerous times before. He’s accustomed to the weight of it in his hands, the sensation of the cotton sliding along his fingertips. He traces the outline of the number one as he returns back to his spot on the floor, drawing his legs beneath him and plopping down on the hardwood. 

Atsumu cradles it in his lap, his hands clutched around the fabric. Kurosu’s voice reciting the rest of the roster to come up and collect their own uniforms is a distant hum in the background. He barely notices Osamu reaching over Suna’s lap to nudge him in the shoulder.

“Hey,” Osamu says. “What’s that look for?”

“Huh?” Atsumu still stares down, his lips parted. He’s always thought of having a uniform as a necessity, not a privilege. But now he understands that wearing this jersey is very much a privilege. Not everyone can say that they captained their team back in high school. Atsumu can. Kita passed the torch onto him. 

“ _Hey_.” 

Osamu shoves him, hard enough that his balance wavers and he careens towards the floor. Atsumu straightens, and his arm reaches to shove Osamu back. But he stops himself before he begins to move. If he wants to hit Osamu back, he has to let go of his jersey. He doesn’t want to do that yet. If he does, the sanctity of the moment will be lost. The essence of this achievement will shatter. He wants to preserve it for as long as he can.

“Tsumu.”

“It’s nothing,” Atsumu says. He holds the jersey out, the number one prominent in front of his eyes, and he already wonders what it’ll look like when he puts it on. Will it feel like it’s made for him—or will he need time to adjust to it? “I just…”

“Just what?” Osamu demands.

Atsumu drops it back into his lap, the fabric pooling together. “I just understand why Kita-san cried when he was made captain a little better now. That’s all.”

Atsumu doesn’t have to lift his head to notice the exchange of looks going on between Ginjima, Suna, and Osamu behind him. It’s been three years now (and a few years too many with Osamu). He knows them well enough. But no matter how hard they try, none of them will understand the gravity of this without experiencing it themselves.

No one understands what Atsumu is feeling right now—this mixture of elation, anticipation, and fear all at once. No one but one person. 

* * *

Atsumu finds Kita where it all begins: a stuffy locker room found at the end of a long hallway in one of Inarizaki High School’s gymnasiums, and like the first time, Kita is waiting for him.

This time, Kita expects him.

Atsumu freezes in place when he notices the other figure inside the locker room. After the jerseys were distributed, the rest of the team filtered out, intent on heading home after a long day’s practice, and for once, Osamu went ahead of him. For once, Atsumu hadn’t minded. His mind feels like it’s still hazy after receiving his uniform, and he wants time on his own to let it settle in.

It’s a strange sensation. Foreign. He’s unused to wanting his own company after something life-changing happens. He usually wants to tell everyone in the near vicinity about whatever happened. Usually, his mouth runs on autopilot, and he tags around others, brimming with restless energy.

Today, he craves something a little more personal. He’s appreciated the serenity of silence in his own peace of mind the older he gets, and even though Osamu would say that age has hardly mellowed him at all, Atsumu knows that it is only a matter of time before his experience settles him down. He wants to be able to sit on his own, the smell of rubber and sweat insistent beneath his nose, his heart racing as he digests everything that has happened in the hush of the gymnasium when no one is around to disturb it.

It’s a surprise when he finds Kita seated on the bench beside Atsumu’s locker. Kita looks the same for the most part. It’s only been a few months since Atsumu has seen him last. The sun has done wonders for his skin, and his arms hold a little more muscle than Atsumu remembers. But everything else is unmistakably Kita: from the sharp eyes to the level stare and up to the black-and-white hair. 

Even though Atsumu is a little winded at the sight of him, Kita is unfazed. His lip twitches at the corner. “Atsumu,” he says. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Atsumu drops his duffel onto the floor, right beside the bench. It lands in a heap, the contents rustling with the movement. “You knew?”

Kita gives him a slow nod. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Kurosu-sensei asked me about it a while back. He said that the position would likely go to you.”

“And? What didja think?” Part of him wonders why he cares so much about Kita’s opinion, while the other part already knows the answer. 

“I said it was a good choice.” Kita sits up straight, his hands cupping his knees. “I toldja once you’d make a great captain. I stand by that.”

Atsumu can’t believe Kita remembers. He thought that day would be lost in Kita’s memory, meaningless and faded, even if Atsumu himself still holds onto it dearly. It was the first thing he recalled when Kurosu mentioned that the captain’s position might go to him. He remembers how matter-of-fact Kita had said it, as if it wasn’t a passing thought but an undeniable truth.

“I’m not gonna be a captain like you, though,” Atsumu says. 

“Wadaya mean?”

“I mean—I’m a little more _rash_ —and I guess some might call me _rude_ —”

For some unknown reason, this makes Kita laugh. It’s such an unexpected sound that it takes Atsumu a few seconds too long to register that the noise leaving Kita’s mouth is laughter. His nose scrunches, and his cheeks redden as he cackles.

Atsumu remembers all the times Kita has ever smiled or laughed, and he can count them all on his fingers. There aren’t many, but they are special. Those memories are dear to him, too. 

“Atsumu,” Kita says once he’s recovered, though the flush still lingers, “sayin’ that you’re rude is puttin’ it lightly.”

“Psh!” Atsumu’s eyes narrow. “That’s mean.”

“Is it? I thought you were aware.”

“Well, I am, but—”

Kita waves him off with a flap of the hand. Before Atsumu can say anything else, Kita slides over on the bench, patting the spot beside him, inviting Atsumu to sit down. Atsumu complies, stepping over his duffel to plop down on the very end. Kita hasn’t left him a lot of room. The warmth from Kita’s thigh presses into Atsumu’s as he sits down. 

“You’re gonna make a great captain,” Kita says. “I have full faith in ya. I feel like I don’t hafta worry as long as you’re in charge.”

Atsumu’s eyes bulge. He’s so used to being a constant stressor that the idea of him easing Kita’s anxieties sits strangely. “Uh, are you sure ‘bout that?”

“Absolutely.” Kita’s eyelids flutter shut. “There’s no one better suited for the position. There’s no one it would mean more to.”

Atsumu can’t deny that it means a lot to him. He hasn’t been able to stop staring at his uniform since it was placed into his hands. It’s just a number—just a position. But it means more to him. This is the byproduct of all his hard work paid off. This is what he’s always wanted, and he knows that he’s going to treasure it until the day he graduates. It doesn’t matter how much his underclassmen tick him off or how much Osamu uses it to taunt him. Until the day he retires, he will always be grateful that he could wear this uniform—even if it’s only for a year. 

“Thanks, Kita-san,” Atsumu says, his voice small. 

“You’re welcome.” Kita peels his eyes open, and those brown irises bear into Atsumu as Kita turns his head. 

“I mean it,” Atsumu says. “Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“If I do well as a captain, it’s gonna be cuz I learned it all from you.”

Kita’s flush is not caused by laughter this time. His shoulders rise to his ears until he almost shrinks in on himself, his cheeks dotted in a pale blush, and Atsumu’s heart tightens at the sight. 

“Oh,” Kita murmurs. “That’s—that’s sweet, Atsumu.”

It’s this acknowledgement that gives Atsumu the courage to press his lips against Kita’s shoulder. The warmth of Kita’s skin is tangible even through the fabric of his sweatshirt. It lasts no longer than a second, and it’s not the most affectionate gesture. It’s pretty tame in comparison to the kinds of actions others take, but it feels right and that’s what matters most to Atsumu.

He drops his head onto Kita’s shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, and his stomach twists when Kita’s head falls onto his, the most imperceptible movement—but Atsumu notices it all the same.

* * *

It’s a hard-fought victory against Karasuno in a rematch for the ages, and it leaves Atsumu elated to the point that he’s thrumming with ecstasy. The whistle blows, the crowd roars, and Osamu lunges for him, slamming into his shoulder with a move so practiced it is instinctual after so many years. His heart squeezes, and pure joy filters through his system—unbound and free. 

As Inarizaki High School are announced as the winners of the match, Atsumu whips his head toward the crowd. Aran pumps his fists into the air, his cheering louder than most, and beside him, Kita claps his hands. He catches Atsumu’s eye with a grin just for him. 

Kita has always said that he’s looked forward to seeing what Atsumu would do. 

And Atsumu is far from finished.

**Author's Note:**

> as i said before, this was written for [atsukita week](https://twitter.com/atsukitaweek). thanks to the mods for hosting this event! it's been a blast.
> 
> this is my first time writing atsumu and kita, but i really enjoyed it even if this piece is a bit more reflective than i originally imagined it would be. these two are just so soft, so it was an honor to write them.
> 
> let me know what you thought! as always, thanks for reading!


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